“Which could well be hastened, Ronnie, if he goes on like this.” Betty rustled some papers. “Look here, I’ve been speaking too long again. You’d better be letting me know what you have for us.”

Ronnie ran a stubby finger down the page as he gave Betty the names of the boats, the number of boxes that were coming off each, and the price paid. He read slowly, knowing that Betty would be entering them in the database as he spoke. Bonnie Maud, 4 boxes, £14 per stone; Misty Blue, 5 boxes, £16 per stone; Minch Hunter, 6 boxes, £18 per stone. They weren’t the best, having been caught by deep-sea trawlers working the inky depths of the Minch. He much preferred to buy off the small fishing boats that set their creels close into the rocky shoreline of the Mull of Kintyre. That was where the clonkers were caught.

“And that’s it for the day,” Ronnie said, holding the mobile between his cheek and shoulder and slipping the elastic band over the notebook.

“Thanks, Ronnie. Will you be buying from Oban tomorrow as well?”

“I’ll have to find out if there are any boats due in. If not, I might just take a ride down to Campbeltown and see if I can pick up some clonkers for you.”

“Well, we certainly could do with some. Mercamadrid were on the phone this morning from Spain looking for some big ones.”

“I’ll do my best, Betty. Speak to you tomorrow.”

He pressed the button on his mobile and put it down on the notebook, and went back to enjoying his breakfast.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ronnie looked up to see Billy Inglis, the buyer for one of Seascape’s rival companies, standing in front of him. He glanced over to the table that Billy had been occupying up until a moment ago, and wondered why he wanted to come over to his table. Besides being rivals at the bid, Ronnie never felt that he had much in common with the lanky East Coast man.

“Aye, if you wish,” Ronnie said, pointing to a chair with a fork laden with bacon and black pudding.

Billy pulled out the chair and sat down, and immediately leaned forward on his elbows and blinkered his eyes with his hands.

“Is something wrong, Billy?” Ronnie asked, his brow creased questioningly.

“Have ye no’ seen the car that’s just pulled up oot-side?”

“No.”

“Well, hae a look.”

Letting out a sigh, Ronnie laid down his knife and fork, got to his feet, and went over to the window. He angled his vision so that he could see farther up the pier, and caught sight of the ageing BMW, lovingly polished as always so that its bright red paintwork gleamed in the morning sun.